The First Night
by Moonlup
Summary: Another OOM for Milliways Bar, the best I've ever written, IMO. How the attack on Ryan's men might have played out, seen from his point of view. Rated M for gore.


It catches him by surprise. He'd thought it was near, thought he was being watched, but it was so damn fast... It comes out of nowhere. He remembers the claws flashing in the moonlight before the dark red of his own blood arcs out, splashing the creature. The sound of his ribs snapping under the blow, the sharp pain as they bend inward… 

He falls. Collapses without a sound. Watches the werewolf lick its claws clean. 

Another one? More than one? Where-How?-another appears, ripping his MP-5 away, but he's lost so much blood already, why does it bother? He's shaking. Shock. There was only supposed to be one. 

One of them, he doesn't know which-does it matter?-reaches past his head, leaving a scratch, and roughly picks him up by the back of his jacket. His feet drag in the mud as he's carried back to his camp.

The rest of the pack is already there, already feeding. Eating. Devouring his men. Hammel-was it Hammel? Hard to tell when the face is missing. Bowne he could recognize. Bowne's eyes are open, staring blankly at nothing, a werewolf muzzle deep in his innards. It hurts to breathe.

There aren't enough men for each werewolf to get its own, and a fight breaks out over Foss. The one who initiated it manages to riptearwrench a leg off before scampering away with its prize. With Foss' leg. Almost daintily, it removes the shredded clothing, then strips away the flesh, crunching the end of the femur when it hits bone. 

If he wasn't so weak, if he could move, he'd roll sideways to heave. It hurts to breathe. It's hard to think. There was only supposed to be one. 

One is moving towards him, another whining at its heels. He can seehear his men being crunchedtornripped apart. He tries to move, gasps as his ribs pierce something, collapses again. The whining werewolf is nudging at the other's chin, its ears folded flat against its head. The other's ears flick back and forth a moment before it gives a rough chuff and turns away, snapping a growl at the one tearing at Pennant. That one grabs an arm, leaving the rest of the carcass behind. The whine, though, turned into a joyful yip. There was only supposed to be one. 

It's standing over him now, and he tries again to move. It crouches, watching him, head cocked and nose twitching. He tries to ignore the pain, but every motion sends a knife dagger through his chest. It hurts to breathe. 

It catches him by the ankle, drags him back, a groan escaping from his lips. Its head comes down, muzzle approaching his chest. He swings weakly, using the very last of his strength. The werewolf snarls and stops it easily, slamming the hand into the mud, holding it there. The other claws grab his neck, one digging into his chin. 

Yes, at least kill him before eating him. Don't rip him apart alive. 

But it doesn't. Its teeth stay bared at his face a moment before moving back down to his chest, snuffling the wounds there. He moans and the grip at his throat tightens. It hurts to breathe. 

Something forces its way into the gashes and he jerks upward, or tries to since the claws are holding him down tighter now, choking off his cries of pain. The thing works its way from one end of the gash to the other. Its muzzle comes up and he watches blearily as it licks his blood off its nose. Then the head goes back down to repeat with the next cut. 

God, why won't it just kill him and be done with it? 

It repeats, cleaning the blood out of each gash in turn, and eventually he passes out. From blood loss or pain, he doesn't know. It doesn't matter. He won't wake up again. He won't be conscious when it finally tears him to pieces. Like his men. There was only supposed to be one. 

And again, he's surprised. His eyes flutter open to see the sun has risen. Is he alive? The dagger pain in his chest says yes, just as sharp as when he was first mauled. He blacks out again. 

He wakes twice more. The first time he lies still in the mud, gazing up at the grey sky, the night playing over and over in his head until the rain starts. He tries to roll, to move so it isn't hitting him directly in the eyes, making him blink. He forgets about his ribs, and he hears them crack again before he loses consciousness. 

The second time he wakes, the sun is lower. It's enough to make him try moving again. They'll be back, he has no doubt. He has to be gone by then, gone before they come back. They'll come back. There was only supposed to be one. 

He moves, crawling slowly oh so slowly towards the radio, and it takes him a moment to realize it's pointless. They ripped it to shreds. He panics, slipping in the mud, until he spots the kit with the flare gun. It's not that far, a miracle he can see it at all in the current state of the camp. He doesn't notice that it no longer hurts to breathe. 

It takes time, but he reaches it. He rests a minute before digging through the kit to find the flare gun. He rolls to his back and fires it up, tossing it aside once it's spent. The sun is too low. Even if anyone did see it, there's no way they'd reach him in time. They're coming back. There was only supposed to be one. 

He starts crawling again, finally coming to a stop where he's hidden behind some of the larger remains of the camp, underneath the camo net. They're coming back. Has he still got his pistol? Yes. He pulls it out. God, he's tired, but they're coming back. **They're** coming back. They're coming **back**. He lies down behind the containers, knowing he can't be seen. They'll have to move things to find him, give him a chance to shoot. He knows it won't do any good, but not all the bullets are for them. He won't let them play with him again. There was only supposed to be one. 

He must've blacked out again because when his eyes next open, he hears voices. There's a surge of adrenaline, enough to make him snap up with a wordless yell, gun raised. Soldiers? He pants as his aim wavers from one man to the next till at last he's satisfied that they're all human. The gun slips from his grasp. "Help me." There was only supposed to be one.


End file.
